The Keatyn Chronicles: Books 1-3: (Stalk Me, Kiss Me, and Date Me)

by Jillian Dodd

  Peyton’s dad laughs. “Give us a break. You may not know how to work your Mom, but you have your daddy wrapped around your little finger.”

  Peyton beams and gives her dad a hug.

  Aiden says, “Well, I supposed I better get out of this makeup and ready for the game.”

  “Oh, I have to get going too. It was nice to meet you both.”

  Aiden and I turn and walk away in the same direction. “Your parents are great.”

  He nods. “Yeah, they are. I’m lucky. Everyone has been complaining about their families coming. I couldn’t wait to see mine. I bet it’s hard not having yours here. Hey, who is going to walk you onto the field?”

  “It is, but my uncle is coming.”

  We get to the boys’ locker room and as he heads through the door I sort of whisper, “Good luck, Aiden.”

  He hears me, stops, does a one-eighty, and comes back to me. He pulls up the sleeve of the black leotard he’s wearing. On his arm is a marker drawn four-leaf clover.

  “That looks like . . .”

  “Points for dances, Round 3? I had someone draw it to match your note. I needed some of that luck today.”

  He still has my note? Of course, I still have the real clover he gave me. It’s pressed between the pages of my Keats poetry book.

  “Why did you need luck?”

  “Probably because I risked making a fool out of myself. I’m glad I did it though. It was exhilarating. Is that how you felt when you went running down the field and kicked the soccer ball in the middle of our game?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, kinda.”

  “That was really brave. New girl. New school. To take that chance.”

  “Maybe, but what you did was braver. Changing people’s perception of you is a lot harder than making a first impression.”

  “Well, since I’m feeling lucky. What do you say? Points for Dances, Round 4?”

  “I can’t do that, but . . .” I reach out and trace the outline of the four-leaf clover. “I do wish you and the team lots of luck.”

  It seems kind of mean.

  6pm

  I go to the dance room, change into my game outfit, and get ready for the fun surprise we have for the alumni tailgate. I get a text from Garrett letting me know that he’s here. I text him back and let him know where to meet up with me.

  I know he’s not my family. I know that he’s being paid a lot to help me, but I also know that Garrett runs a very large and successful security firm. I know that he’s taken a special interest in my case. I know that he cares.

  I spot him. He’s looking really handsome in his charcoal pinstriped suit. I never really paid much attention, but Garrett is really quite good looking. And, apparently, Miss Praline has already noticed this. She is totally chatting him up.

  “Do you know Melissa?” Garrett asks me.

  “Melissa and I do know each other. She is also Miss Praline, my French teacher.”

  Garrett grabs her hand, kisses it, and starts speaking to her in French.

  He’s so flirting with her.

  And she is totally swooning.

  It’s really, really cute.

  “Um, Miss Praline,” I say, as I pat Garrett on the back. “My uncle, Garrett, really doesn’t know anyone. Do you think he could sit with you during the game? I have to go now and do a dance thing, and I’ll be out on the field during the game.”

  Garrett grins at me and Miss Praline gets all flustered. “Well, um, of course, I wouldn’t want your, uh, uncle, to get lost or anything.”

  Ha! I doubt Garrett ever gets lost. He probably has a full recon poster of the school’s building plans on his cell phone.

  “That would be great.” I give my uncle a hug, then point and say, “We’ll meet right over there to line up when there are two minutes left in the half.”

  “Sounds good. I’m looking forward to it.”

  There’s a wide pathway running down the parking lot and tailgaters are set up on both sides of it. I get a text from Peyton telling us to take our positions.

  I walk casually over to a tent and pretend to be interested in what they are doing.

  Someone turns up a great song. Which is my cue. I walk out into the pathway and start doing a line dance to the music. I’m the only one out here, so people are turning to stare.

  After a few lines of the song, Peyton and Maggie come out to dance with me.

  Pair by pair, dancers join in the dance, and pretty soon a lot of the alumni dancers join in too, then some of the crowd.

  By the end of the song, the pathway is full of people dancing with us.

  After the flash mob, Peyton runs up to me, flushed and beaming. “That was so much fun. You did a great job starting it.”

  “A great job making a fool out of myself, you mean?”

  “Speaking of fools, what did you think of Aiden’s dance?”

  “It was really good. So, does Whitney know about Cam or your dress yet?”

  “Are you kidding? I made sure to parade him in front of her the second he arrived. I know she’s mad, but it’s not like she can say anything about it. And no, she doesn’t know about my dress. I want that to be a surprise.”

  “That seems kind of mean, Peyton. I think you should tell her.”

  “I don’t think it’s any of her business what I wear.”

  “That’s true, but—“

  She holds her hand up. “No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to do what I want to do.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “I’m not listening.”

  I really want to tell her that this is going to blow up in her face. That someone will end up getting hurt in the crossfire. That her boyfriend will get drugged. That she’ll turn into a bitch. That her secret will come out.

  But I know she won’t listen.

  Maybe it’s a lesson you have to learn on your own.

  Excitement in the air.

  Halftime.

  At halftime, I change into my formal gown, then meet Garrett just outside the field house. We gather with the other Court members waiting for the processional. The game has been going in our favor. We’re up by fourteen already and you can feel the excitement in the air.

  Except for here.

  Here, there is tension.

  Peyton is happily sashaying around in her new dress, but you can feel the tension between her and Whitney. You can see the glares Whitney gives her and you can tell that Peyton is pretending not to care.

  Whitney is standing next to her perfect-looking parents.

  Where there is even more tension.

  I think it’s safe to say that Whitney’s mother does not approve of her dress. She keeps looking at it and scowling.

  I have to hand it to Whitney though. She has her head held high and a smile plastered on her face.

  I didn’t think she could pull off a dress covered with jewels, but she so is. She looks amazing and I can see why she fell in love with the dress. It makes the rest of our gowns look plain in comparison.

  Dawson grabs me from behind, kisses my neck, and whispers, “You look hot.” Then he gets in line with his own parents.

  I forget about Whitney and Peyton and just stare at him. He looks so sexy in his football uniform and my mind can’t help but wander back to wearing that jersey and nothing else yesterday. Although, in my daydream we are not interrupted by his parents.

  Garrett is reading emails from his phone. He coughs and a troubled look crosses his face.

  “What's wrong?” I ask.

  “I just got some news.”

  I instantly panic. “Bad news?”

  “I’m not sure yet. We had an interview scheduled next week with a guy regarding Vincent and, possibly, your case. Now he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” I croak out.

  The band director, who is in charge of leading us all out onto the field, yells out, “Okay, line up by class starting with the freshmen. We’re about ready to go out.”

  We’re supposed to follow the band direc
tor out onto the field. Then, as our class is called, we’ll walk down the sideline, then turn and go up through the 50-yard line toward the home crowd.

  “Yes,” Garrett replies. “He was apparently killed in a random mugging.”

  Random mugging. Where have I heard that before?

  He continues. “His family doesn’t think it was random. They think he was murdered. And, I mean, they’re right . . .” He stops to listen to the stadium announcer who starts talking about the Homecoming Court tradition over the loudspeaker.

  The band director yells out, “As soon as he says freshmen, all freshmen proceed on your route.”

  And this year’s Freshmen Court is . . .

  Garrett whispers to me, “The guy was huge. I can't imagine anyone trying to mug him.”

  “What did he have to do with Vincent? How did Vincent know him?”

  “He had an appointment with him a few weeks ago.”

  "And this year’s Sophomore Court is . . .

  “Was he a doctor?”

  Garrett looks at me and shakes his head. “No, he was a tattoo artist. He did Vincent’s chaos tattoo.”

  “All right, juniors, walk down to the fifty-yard line and hold,” the band director instructs us.

  Garrett and I walk to the fifty-yard line. I hear someone shouting my name from the Visitor’s section, which I’m now standing in front of. I look up and see Braxton waving at me.

  I smile and give him a little wave back, but there’s something gnawing at the back of my brain.

  “We had hoped Vincent might have said something about the tattoo that would help our case. Like maybe he mentioned why he was getting the same tattoo as you. Or something like that.” He shakes his head. “It was a long shot.”

  And this year’s Junior Court is . . .

  I remember the tattoo artist who Brooklyn brought in to do our tattoos. How big he was. “Tell me he wasn't covered in tattoos and looked like Santa Claus.”

  I take a step forward to walk onto the field, but Garrett doesn't come with me.

  He’s firmly holding his stance and my elbow.

  “How do you know that?”

  The band director yells, “Miss Monroe, go, please.”

  I pull Garrett down the center of the field, putting on a big smile that completely masks the sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Because Brooklyn hired a guy who looked like that to do our tattoos. Everyone called him Tiny.”

  “That’s the guy who is dead,” Garrett says.

  Keatyn Monroe.

  As I accept a bouquet of flowers, the student section yells, “MON—R-O-A-R!”

  I plaster a fake smile on my face and wave to the crowd.

  Then it hits me. Where I heard it.

  “Garrett,” I say out of the side of my mouth, while still keeping a smile plastered on my face. “Vincent’s mom and stepdad were killed in a random mugging.”

  Garrett says, “This is quite disturbing.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  And this year’s Senior Court is . . .

  We all turn to watch Dawson, Jake, Brad, Whitney, Peyton, and Mariah walk down the fifty-yard line toward us.

  Garrett holds my arm tight. “Are you okay? You’ve got a smile on your face, but I can feel you shaking.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. But I’ll be better if you can prove Vincent killed him. Then he can go to jail and I’ll be free.”

  “Do you need me for anything else after this?”

  “No, this was the big deal,” I say, looking down at the designer dress and shoes I’ve had on for a total of twenty minutes. “Kinda silly, isn’t it? Like, in perspective.”

  “Yeah, it kinda is. As soon as this is over, I’m catching a plane to LA.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  A New Jersey housewife.

  Halftime.

  Garrett immediately leaves for the airport and I work my way through the halftime crowd. I have to change back into my dance costume for the rest of the game.

  Whitney is surrounded by her family. I hear her mother say, “What in the world are you wearing?”

  Whitney stands up straight. “A dress.”

  “If you had some feathers, you could be a Vegas showgirl.”

  Her sister laughs. “Expect she can’t dance.”

  Oh, wow. That was a low blow.

  “First you lose Dawson and then you wear a dress like that. Are you trying to lose?”

  “Everyone already voted, Mother. They didn’t vote based on me not wearing my sister’s hand-me-down gown.”

  “You know, you’ll be the only one in the family that hasn’t won. What a let down,” her mother replies.

  “This dress was very expensive,” Whitney counters.

  “Well, there’s no accounting for taste. You look like a New Jersey housewife.”

  I actually feel sorry for Whitney, especially when I see the tears shining in her eyes. The ones she refuses to let fall.

  I make a beeline toward her. “Whitney,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Will you come with me to the dance locker room? There’s an issue that I need your help with.”

  “What kind of issue could she possible help with?” her sister asks in a tone dripping with bitch.

  I look straight at Whitney’s mom and ignore her bitch sister. “Mrs. Clarke, do you mind if I steal her away?” I roll my eyes dramatically. “We’re having an issue with the security for the after-party and since Whitney runs the Social Committee, I feel it’s best that she handle it.”

  Her mother looks at me shrewdly. “Your dress is very pretty.”

  I smile sweetly at her. I am an adorable, respectful young woman.

  One who wants to rip this woman’s eyes out.

  “Thank you.” I look down at it and scrunch up my nose. “Although it doesn’t compare to Whitney’s. I’m so jealous of her bold choice. She looks amazing, don’t you think? You must be so proud. I mean, Homecoming Court is nice and all, but it’s nothing compared to Social Committee. There isn’t a more respected position at school. Did she tell you how we’re doing themed weekends? They will be a learning experience, incorporate the entire student and faculty population, and raise funds for some great causes. We’re all so excited.”

  Winnie is looking at Whitney like she’s an alien, but her mother turns to her. “Whitney, darling, you didn’t tell us about all the amazing things you are doing.”

  Whitney says with no trace of a smile, “You didn’t ask.”

  The tension is thick, so I start moving her. “Nice meeting you all,” I say, as I pull her through the crowd.

  When we get to the door, she asks, “Why did you just do that?”

  “Your family sucks. And I meant what I said about your dress.”

  She looks wistfully at her dress. “Peyton had a beaded one. We were both supposed to look different. But then she went shopping with you.”

  “You sister is just jealous. She could never pull off a dress like that. You can tell by her wardrobe tonight that she prefers to blend in. You took a chance. I give it two thumbs up.”

  “Really?”

  I laugh. “Well, I’m not the most conservative person around here, and you hate how I dress, so you can take my compliment with a grain of salt.”

  “If only I could have a shot of tequila with it,” she chuckles.

  I wrap my arm around her neck. “I’m pretty sure I know a guy that can help with that.”

  “Shark!” I yell out.

  He saunters over. “S’up ladies?”

  “Shark, you're tipsy.”

  “My parents are here for the next forty-some hours—not that I'm counting—and it’s just so wonderful to hear them tell me what a failure I am.”

  “Wanna share with Whitney? I think she’s counting down the hours too.”

  He holds out his flask. “Rocking dress,” he says, while staring directly at her cleavage.

  Whitney blushes.

  I've never seen her blush.


  She raises his flask in the air. “Here's to being a disappointment to our parents.”

  “You two enjoy,” I say. “I gotta go change back into my dance costume.”

  “From glitter whores to kitty whores?” she says with a laugh. It’s her typical slam, but she says it in a nicer way. Like we’re sharing an inside joke.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  I’m late getting to the dance room, so I quickly change back into my dance costume.

  Everyone is already back out on the field. I can see their dresses all lined up on the rack. I should hurry and get out there too, but I need a minute.

  I sit down, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.

  When I open them, I roll the waistband of my skirt down, look at my tattoo, and remember Tiny.

  As much as I wish we could find something on Vincent, I pray that Tiny’s death had nothing to do with me.

  I stand up, pull my phone out of my locker, and call my mom.

  Tommy answers with, “What’s shaking, baby?”

  “I just called to tell you and Mom that I’m thankful I have such a supportive family. That I appreciate all you and Mom have done for me.”

  “Well, we love you. Um, have you done something we won't love and are buttering us up?”

  “No. It's Homecoming, so everyone’s parents are here and a lot of the kids are miserable. I was thinking how I would love to have you around. I’m lucky to have parents like you and I probably don’t tell you that enough. And I’m sorry that I talked back to you last week. I was sort of under some stress.”

  “I know you were. It’s killing your mom and me not to be there to share Homecoming with you. But I hope you know how very proud we are.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  “Heard you invited Uncle Garrett.”

  “Yes. He walked me on the field and then just left to catch a flight for LA.”

  I don’t tell him about Tiny. Probably because I really don’t want them to know.

  “Tell Mom I love her and kiss the girls for me.”

  “You got it.”

  Saturday, October 8th

  A rich history.